by Debi Gliori
‘Gonny stop staring into space and give me a hand here, Lily?’ Craig gasps, trying to drag one of the bits of scenery across the hall. ‘I can’t do it on ma own.’
Between us, we haul the huge canvas across the floor. Through the open nursery door I can see Daisy waving at me as Miss McPhee fits the monkey mask onto her head. Vivaldi is helping Annabel lay out the blue silk across the stage, and Jamie and Shane are arranging rows of chairs for the audience to sit on. Yoshito is helping Mr Fox, the school janitor, test the microphones when, all of a sudden, there’s a fZZzzZZBzzzZZT sound and all the lights go out.
Since it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning, we’re not plunged into darkness, but along with the lights, the microphones have stopped working. Mr Fox frowns: when things go on the blink, it’s his job to try and fix them, but before he can do anything, there’s a CRaaAAACK followed by a colossal CRUMP, and a massive chunk of the ceiling falls down with a loud CRASHHHH!
‘QUICK!’ Mr Fox yells, grabbing Yoshito and pushing the emergency fire doors open. ‘Everybody outside. NOW.’
Across the hall I can see all the little ones in their costumes, crowding behind Miss McPhee. Mrs McDonald is comforting several wailing tots as she leads them outside, carefully avoiding the enormous pile of broken plaster and bits of ceiling lying in the middle of the hall. Gulp. Craig and I were incredibly lucky not to have been standing under the ceiling when it fell down. If we hadn’t been dragging the scenery up to the stage at that precise moment, we would have been directly under that pile of plaster.
We all herd outside into our drowned playground. Water laps around our feet, and by now most of the nursery children have picked up on the general mood and are wailing. This is the PITS. I’m freezing cold and my feet are wet, but the worst thing is that I’ve just overheard Mrs McDonald saying to Miss McPhee, ‘What a shame. I’m so sorry, but this probably means we won’t be able to have our concert on Friday. The poor wee mites are going to be so disappointed.’
No concert? After all our hard work? That’s so unfair. I may not be a poor wee mite but I am so disappointed, I want to scream out loud. Vivaldi splashes across to stand beside me, followed by Annabel. They both look thoroughly miserable.
‘This is just completely rubbish,’ Vivaldi hisses, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering. She doesn’t know just how rubbish it is, because she didn’t hear what I heard.
I tell her: ‘Did you hear? Mrs McDonald said we won’t be able to have the concert this Friday after all.’
‘WHAAAT?’ Annabel squawks. ‘No concert? But … but … but we have to have the concert.’
‘No withoot a roof, we don’t,’ Craig says grimly. ‘Think aboot it. We can’t ask people to come to the concert and make them sit under umbrellas, can we?’
‘This is just PANTS,’ Shane says, frowning mightily. ‘Rubbish weather. Ah hate rain. When I’m big, I’m no gonny live in Scotland any more. I’m gonny move somewhere it doesn’t rain, like the desert or something.’
‘That’s just stupid,’ Craig tells him. ‘You can’t live in the desert. There’s nothing in them except sand.’
‘And no rain,’ Shane snaps. ‘Besides, ah like sand. Sand’s OK by me. And anyway, there’s loads of stuff out there in the desert. Like … pyramids. I’ve seen them on TV.’
‘What’re you on aboot?’ Craig snorts. ‘Are you gonny live in a pyramid, then?’
‘AYE,’ Shane yells. ‘That’s fine by me too. I’ll wrap myself in bandages like a mummy. Anything rather than stand here getting wet.’
After a moment’s thought Craig says smugly, ‘You can’t live in a pyramid and I’ll tell you why.’
‘Why no?’
‘Because there’s nowhere to plug in your PlayStation,’ Craig tells him – but before Shane can come up with a convincing argument, Mrs McDonald calls us all over.
‘Children. Listen carefully, dears. We’re now all going to go back into the nursery classroom. Miss McPhee is phoning your parents to get them to come and take you home. I’m afraid we’re going to have to close the school.’
A huge ‘AWWWWWW!’ goes up. A few of the littlies promptly sit down in the puddles.
‘Mrs McDonald? Does this mean that there will not be a concert on Friday?’ Yoshito’s face looks utterly woebegone.
‘I’m afraid not, dear. There’s nowhere else big enough to hold all of us and the mums and dads. I’m very sorry, but we’re going to have to postpone our concert until later in the year.’
By now, all the nursery children are crying. This is rapidly turning into the worst day ever. We all troop back into the school and crowd into Daisy’s classroom. To make matters worse, most of the littlies are still wearing the costumes we made for them to wear at the concert, and they are soaking wet, so we have to help take them off and drape them over the radiators to dry out.
‘We may as well just dump everything in the bin,’ Craig mutters, peeling the elephant mask off a sobbing tot. ‘It’s no as if we’re ever gonny use any of the costumes.’
For once Annabel is silent. She stands there, biting her bottom lip and staring out at the rain. Beside her, a tiny child dressed as an ant drips watery black paint all over the floor.
‘I’ve managed to get hold of all the mums and dads,’ Miss McPhee says, ‘except Jamie and Annabel’s.’
‘Typical,’ groans Jamie. ‘Today’s the nanny’s day off and Dad will probably be at work till late afternoon.’
‘Come back to my house,’ I suggest, pulling the monkey costume off Daisy. ‘You can tell him to come and get you once he’s back.’
‘Poor munk,’ Daisy says, her voice muffled by her furry monkey mask. ‘Notta cheekmunk now. Munk all wet.’
She’s right. The monkey costume is soaking. Clumps of brown fur are coming off in my hands. Eughhh. I look like a werewolf. ‘Are you sure?’ Jamie asks. ‘I mean, that’s awfully decent of you. There are two of us, you know.’
‘I’m sure Mum won’t mind,’ I lie, suddenly remembering the mess with the roof, the state of Jack’s room, and the builders, who’ll be trooping up and down the stairs. And it won’t just be Jamie coming over for tea: Annabel will be coming too. Crikey. If Mum ever speaks to me again, it’ll be a miracle.
Mum blinks a bit when she discovers that she’s been given two extra children to look after, but then she rises to the occasion heroically.
‘Brilliant,’ she says. ‘I was wondering how Lily and I were going to manage to move all Jack’s stuff into the study. Thank heavens you’re here, Jamie and Annabel. I don’t know how we would have managed without you.’
They are helpful too. Without so much as a squeak of protest, they carry box after box of Jack’s things into the study. Occasionally Annabel looks thoughtful and Jamie asks lots of questions.
‘Why has your brother got a fur coat?’ Jamie is half buried under this item.
‘It used to belong to our grandfather,’ I explain. ‘He travelled around Russia a lot.’
‘Oooooh. Was he a spy?’ Annabel asks.
‘No, he was a piper actually. He toured with a pipe band all over the world.’
‘Is that why you play the pipes?’ Jamie asks.
‘No … well … sort of,’ I mumble, remembering the tune I’ve been practising for months specially for the concert. The concert which, as of today, has been cancelled. Suddenly I feel really miserable.
Almost as if she can read my mind, Annabel says, ‘You were going to play a tune at the concert, weren’t you?’
I nod, not trusting myself to speak in case I burst into tears of disappointment.
‘I’m so fed up,’ Annabel says. ‘I was really looking forward to doing my sea-thing with all that blue silk … Now we’ll never know how good it might have been.’
At which point Mum calls us downstairs for supper.
Fifteens
Sister for sale
Daisy’s already in her high chair, swigging from her cup with loud slurping sounds. WayWoof is cur
led up invisibly under the table, waiting for whatever falls off Daisy’s plate. Dad is back from work early and Jack is slumped in his seat, staring into space with his earbuds tsss-tssssing as usual. Mum has squeezed two more chairs round the table for our guests and the kitchen is full of delicious smells. Mum starts dishing out spaghetti into bowls and passing them round. Daisy takes one look at hers and gives a wail of dismay.
‘Notta wumz,’ she moans. ‘No likeit WUMZZ.’
We all grit our teeth. Daisy always maintains that spaghetti is worms, but with a bit of persuasion she can usually be talked into eating them. I’m sure she doesn’t really believe they’re worms; she’s just a complete Drama Queen.
‘WUMZZZ,’ she bawls, locking eyes with Annabel. ‘’GUSTING.’
Oh, dear. At Mishnish Castle I bet Jamie and Annabel are used to eating dinner from antique porcelain plates on linen tablecloths, without horrible baby sisters comparing their food to nasty squirmy things.
‘Here, havva WUM,’ Daisy cackles, digging her fists into her bowl and extending a dripping handful.
‘DAISY,’ Mum snaps. ‘Stop that. I’m so sorry,’ she continues, turning to Annabel. ‘She’s in one of her wicked moods today. Not enough sleep last night, and now, with the concert being cancelled at your poor school …’
‘I think she’s really sweet,’ Annabel says. ‘I wish I had a little sister …’
My jaw falls open and I stare at Annabel, but before I can say anything, Jack gets in first.
‘Have ours.’ He grins. ‘Really. We wouldn’t mind, would we, Daze?’
Daisy rakes him with one of her why-don’t-you-just-shrivel-up-and-die stares, then focuses on Annabel. ‘Havva WUM,’ she commands, waving a wriggly handful in Annabel’s direction.
‘Delighted,’ Annabel replies, pretending to eat some. ‘Yum. Delicious. Got any more?’
Oh, no. I’ve just spotted what Daisy’s done. Yeeeeeurgh. Those are actual worms. Annabel can’t see that Daisy is playing for real. Oh, gag. Oh, how horrible is that? Poor Annabel. I have to stop her from eating any more.
‘DAISY!’ I roar. ‘Not funny. Not funny at all. Stop it or—’
‘Not lissnin’, Lil-Lil,’ Daisy says. ‘La-la-la. WUMZ. La-la-la—’
‘Daisy,’ I hiss in her ear, ‘if you don’t stop this right now, I won’t read you a bedtime story.’
‘Not lissnin’. No wantit story. Go WAY,’ Daisy shrieks.
‘Tell you what, Annabel,’ Jack says. ‘We’ll pay you to take her. What d’you reckon? A hundred pounds?’
‘Better make that two,’ Dad says, smiling at Daisy. ‘She’s really expensive to run.’
‘Three,’ Mum says. ‘She costs a fortune in nappies.’
‘NOT THREE,’ Daisy bawls, flinging her handful of worms across the table. Fortunately I’m the only one who can see them wriggling and thrashing next to the salad bowl. Everyone else thinks it’s just a pile of squished spaghetti.
‘NOT THREE,’ Daisy repeats, banging her fists on the table. ‘Not lissnin’. Not FUNNY. Not WAAAAAAAA …’
At which point Dad plucks her out of her high chair and takes her upstairs for a bath. Phew.
Silence descends on the kitchen.
‘I’d better see if I can get hold of Dad,’ Jamie says. ‘He should be home by now …’ He excuses himself and goes out into the hall to use the phone.
Annabel and I clear the table and Mum dishes out pudding. Yum – she’s made an upside-down lemon and apple sponge, and there’s vanilla ice cream to go with it.
Annabel’s eyes light up. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Can I come and live with you, Lily? We never have dessert at home.’
‘I’m sure you do, really,’ Mum says, giving Annabel an extra-big helping.
‘No,’ Annabel says sadly. ‘Absolutely not – unless Dad’s having a dinner party or something, and then there are loads of desserts but we’re not allowed any till the next day.’
Golly. There’d be a riot here at the Old Station House if we weren’t allowed pudding till the day after. What’s the point of that? Puddings are meant to be eaten straight from the oven. Talking of which …
We’re just scraping the last atoms of ice cream out of our bowls when Jamie returns. He looks really uncomfortable, as if he’s trying to hide how upset he is.
‘Um … bit of a problem, Mrs MacRae. Er, Dad’s got his dates mixed up and it turns out he’s in Barcelona tonight and can’t get back home until … er … tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ squeaks Annabel. ‘But … but … who’s going to look after us?’
‘Er, yes,’ Jamie continues, his ears turning pink with embarrassment. ‘And I phoned Katinka …’ He turns to Mum and explains, ‘Our nanny. But it’s her day off and she’s not answering her phone and—’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mum interrupts, patting Jamie’s arm and smiling reassuringly at Annabel. ‘Really, Jamie. These things happen. You’ll both stay with us tonight, OK? Let me have your dad’s phone number and I’ll let him know you’re safe and will be spending the night with us.’
Jamie’s shoulders slump with relief. Hoorah for Mum. All of a sudden I’m so proud of her, I want to stand up and cheer. Annabel bites her lip and asks, ‘D’ you think I could speak to Daddy after you?’
‘Of course,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Help yourselves to pudding while I phone.’ And off she goes to ring Mr Dunlop, the Absent Dad.
Moments later, it’s Annabel’s turn. Poor her. It must be pretty weird having a dad who forgets he’s supposed to be looking after you and your big brother. If that had been our dad, I would have been feeling pretty cross and upset too.
Mum sits down at the table and groans. ‘I forgot. Of course. Tomorrow there won’t be any school, will there? Oh heavens. Never mind – you’ll all have to stay here with me and the roofers …’
Annabel returns, eyes shining and practically bouncing back to the table. ‘Great news,’ she says. ‘You’ll be terribly impressed. Guess what – I’ve managed to get Daddy to allow us to have the school concert at Mishnish Castle. Isn’t that BRILLIANT?’
At first I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The concert is on again? Just like that? How on earth …?
‘I made Daddy feel really really bad’ – Annabel grins – ‘since he’d managed to forget all about Jamie and me. I mean, that was pretty shocking, really. I told him we’d already been having the most awful day with the school ceiling falling down and were all feeling completely miserable about the concert being cancelled. I didn’t really have to say much more. Well … maybe just a couple of hiccuppy sobs …’ completely miserable about the concert being cancelled. I didn’t really have to say much more. Well … maybe just a couple of hiccuppy sobs …’
Jamie rolls his eyes and groans. Jack is gazing at Annabel in utter HORROR – he’d no idea girls did that sort of thing.
‘It was Daddy’s idea,’ Annabel said finally. ‘Well … sort of.’
Wow. I am impressed. I’m also feeling a huge bubble of excitement rising up in my chest. YESSSSSS! The concert is going to go ahead. The show will go on, thanks to Annabel. Then, all of a sudden, I’m panicking. Aaaaargh. The costumes. The scenery. The music. Will there be time to do it all before Friday? Only two more days to get ready.
‘Can I use the phone?’ I ask. I can’t wait to tell Vivaldi.
Sixteen:
A near miss, Hiss
Unable to sleep, the Chin was sitting alone in the kitchen at Arkon House, trying to read the latest issue of Hexenkessel: the monthly magazine for Real Witches.
In vain she tried to concentrate on Euphemia Nightshade’s column on ‘Goblins I Have Known and Eaten’, but her heart wasn’t in it. Turning to Zorba’s Horrorscopes, she began to read that instead. Next to her star sign (the Wilted Nettle) she found the following:
This month the stars are shining just for you,
helping you make an ENORMOUSLY
important decision.
Lucky word: Y
es
Lucky stone: Diamond
The Chin blinked in surprise. Usually her Horrorscope was full of doom and gloom, not to mention boils, warts and plagues. And her lucky stone was, more often than not, a lump of coal. She blinked and read once more – Lucky stone: Diamond. The Chin frowned, then snorted with disbelief. Where on earth was she supposed to find a diamond to be lucky with? What a load of old tosh. Zorba the Horrorscope writer must have washed his brains out with bubble bath.
Flinging the magazine into the bin, the Chin was about to head upstairs to attempt to get some sleep when the telephone began to ring. Who on earth could be calling at this hour? It was only half past five in the morning. It was still dark, for spawn’s sake.
‘Hello?’ she croaked, picking up the receiver.
‘Mischin?’ whispered the voice on the other end; then, not waiting for a reply, it carried on rapidly, the words tumbling out breathlessly, one after another without pause: ‘It is I, Hare Harukashi, your neighbour. And friend. And sincerest admirer. Yes. So. Oh, Mischin, how to say this? I find myself unable to think properly, Mischin. My thoughts are running around in circles like a flock of badly behaved sheeps—’
‘Sheep,’ the Chin corrected, but Hare wasn’t listening.
‘… and I, who once could sleep for days on end, cannot find so much as a moment’s slumber—’
‘Nor I, Mr Harukashi,’ the Chin confessed. ‘Not one wink of sleep last night—’
‘Dear lady,’ Hare interrupted, ‘I have to ask you a question. You must think very hard before you answer because … well, I cannot explain why, but I know that if I do not ask you this question, I will never sleep ever again.’
‘Dear me,’ the Chin murmured. ‘How very dramatic, Mr Harukashi. Very well. I’m listening. Fire away.’
